Young Blood
by land of a thousand words
Summary: In which Chibs is forced into the same pains of his youth, but chooses a different ending. A S6 SoA AU.


Notes: _This is the fourth of 6 one-shots that I've already posted to Ao3. Originally posted 11/01/2013._

This is atrociously AU both before & after 6x08. I think you'll be able to figure out why. There are also flashbacks within flashbacks. I hope you liked Inception.

* * *

_present day._

The warehouse smelled like rotting meat; a dense, layered type of smell that would bury itself in your skin and hair – you could step out of the shower and still smell it on yourself, a feeling like you were already buried six feet beneath the earth, disappearing.

_Don't let me disappear_, he thought longingly, the irritating feeling of the needle piercing jagged streaks of black across the grim smile of the reaper. Too many people spend their lives worrying about whether or not they existed, whether or not they would be remembered when they died. His ink had been a kind of immortality insurance. They would have remained on his skin until the flesh rotted off his bones, his mug-shot would have been hung, proudly, beside the smiling faces of his brothers, and his name would have been lauded from the mouths of future generations.

He could hear his heartbeat fading already, beneath the loud buzzing of the gun. The more he focused on the sound, the more it sounded to him like the mechanical lowering of a casket. There would be no memoriam patches sewn into their jackets for him, no leaving of earthly possessions. He would be lost to the world with nothing to call himself.

Like the casket was his own; dead, forgotten, forever.

—

_1 wk. earlier._

"I didn't know," she whispered, looking pointedly away from his eyes. "I hadn't even thought to check."

His arms were folded tightly across his chest, but his gaze was planted firmly upon her face. The past ten minutes had been an exercise in potential saint-hood; in deciding whether or not to be the slighted lover or the compassionate friend. To be the person he had been to her when she'd been Mrs. Teller or the perverted old man who by some miracle had found himself between the sheets of his President's high school sweetheart; mother of his children.

"I _never_ would have, if…"

She sniffed in the dry air of the hospital room and everything felt raw, her insides _hurt_, her eyes were wet but the levy refused to break and the skin of her cheeks remained cracked and pale.

"You _know_ I wouldn't have _purposely_…"

If there was one thing he knew for certain about Tara in the time they'd gotten closer, it was that she was a finisher. She finished medical school, she dealt with psychotic ATF agents, biker boyfriends, and doing whatever it took to protect her children. She also finished her sentences, was wise enough to know when _not_ to have the last word, and articulate to a fault.

When he heard the lost stuttering, the inability to get the right words out, he knew that the spite he'd felt only moments earlier had been fleeting; it had never really taken hold in his heart, and he should have known there was never going to be any harsh words uttered from _his_ mouth. Not today.

His arms fell listlessly to his sides and he caught her quick glance, the wince in her eyes, as if he had slapped her with only a look. The thought of her being afraid of him had his heart clenching and he walked purposefully to her side, slowly sitting at the edge of the bed.

"I knew this was happenin'," he said softly, hands resting against his own thigh, "I'm just as guilty as you are."

She scoffed and a tear finally escaped and slid down her face, the wetness leaving a trail of pink flesh that briefly shone from the pale planes of her face. He went to wipe the tear from her skin but she stopped him, taking his hand in her own.

"No, don't," she answered in response to the unspoken question in his gaze, "I'm fine."

He nodded but his brain was practically screaming with outrage at how not "fine" she was, how she looked seconds from disintegrating before his very eyes. He lowered his hand, let their skin briefly touch because he knew that any displays of affection on his part would result in a complete lack of control on hers; and there wasn't time for that yet. _When will there be?_ he thought, tracing his hand down the slightly raised scar on her wrist.

"One day," she said, smiling sadly, as if she had heard him ask.

—

_4 mths. earlier._

His apartment was surprisingly clean for an older bachelor, although she supposed he was rarely there these days. There was enough furniture and knick-knacks to keep it cozy while remaining recognizably masculine, and the expected smell of cigarette smoke was only barely discernible beneath a hint of lemon pledge and quite possibly burnt toast.

"I smoke out on the fire escape," he said, guessing her thoughts.

"Surprise, surprise," she answered, smiling, and she shrieked at the playful smack against her jeans.

She turned swiftly around and pointed an accusing finger at his chest.

"_You're_ a dirty old man."

"Hey!" he objected, grabbing her roughly around the waist, "who you callin' 'old'?"

She laughed, struggling to get away, but remained captive, gripping his forearms as if hoping he'd squeeze harder; keep her a willing prisoner within his flesh forever. She would see the rest of his tiny flat later that night, only hours before sunrise, and then watch him, sleepily, from underneath the many blankets of his bed, the tendrils of smoke weaving gracefully into the cold air of winter.

—

The winter before Tara's miscarriage was made of the kind of moments he'd think about on his death bed. He'd look up at the faces of his grandchildren (God forbid), or into the barrel of a gun and he'd think of her pink feet hanging off the edge of his fire escape, the scratching of his turn table, and the shared bottle of whiskey that they'd leave forgotten underneath the coffee table.

There was certainly more than one occasion of the deep, soul-twisting kinds of conversation he would normally avoid, but women, this one in particular, had ways of making him gabby – if not necessarily gabby, then at least more talkative than usual.

During the course of one evening they'd been sharing a joint between the two of them. The sight of her lips closing around the damp paper, watching her chest rise and fall as she inhaled and exhaled had kept their words to a minimum for at least 2 hours, but now they lay sated on his retro-looking couch, bodies buried beneath blankets, while Bob Dylan's scratchy voice crooned "It Ain't Me Babe" softly through the speakers.

He had thought she'd been asleep, and his eyes opened in surprise at the sound of her voice.

"I always hated this song," she said tiredly, her fingers twining with his underneath the blanket.

"Sacrilege," he said in his deepest Scottish brogue, smiling against the side of her head.

"It's catchy enough, but the idea that he believes this woman _actually_ expects _so_ much of him?" She sighed. "It's always seemed arrogant to me."

"Aye, but it's a classic though."

He felt her shrug lazily and pressed a kiss against the skin of her shoulder. They were quiet as the song concluded; the room silent except for the soft skipping of the record and the gentle rain starting to fall against the window panes.

He wasn't a huge fan of that song either, but he hadn't wanted to mention why. _It isn't that he's arrogant,_ he'd wanted to say, indulging the comment, _it's that he wishes he __**could**__ do and be __**all**__ of those things._

"I danced with Fiona to that song," he said quietly, not even certain that he had spoken aloud.

"Mmm," Tara answered, waking just enough to say, "…never talk 'bout her."

"I let her down, Tara," he said roughly, hoping she could still hear him in her half-asleep state.

"All she asked was that I love and protect her and our daughter."

She mumbled again in her sleep and gripped his hand tighter.

"An' I couldn't even do that."

—

_4 mths. later._

His apartment was empty without her. He let it get too messy – he stopped smoking on the fire escape. If she came over now she would have made him wash the sheets; the smell of tobacco had infiltrated each and every thread, and he felt like a disappointment, like he had let his wife down all over again. Late nights would find him seated at his kitchen table, a half-smoked cigarette resting over piles of ash, like one thought after another; he had begun burying himself in regret, shame, and a hatred of his cowardice.

He had been very young all those years ago in Scotland; he had loved Fiona but he was married because that was what you did. He loved his daughter more than he ever thought he could love anything, but he had a polite relationship with her at best. Now here he was, an old man; he had killed people, done some very morally questionable things in his years in California with the Sons of Anarchy; with his brothers.

The smoke began to burn inside his nostrils and he violently snubbed it out, crushing it against the glassy, ash-covered plate.

—

_present day (almost)._

"I'm sorry," he said, words sharp, "what is it you're asking me to do here?"

"Do _not_ kill him, Jax."

"I don't think you're in a position to be telling me to do _anything_."

All 3 of them were standing around the table at the temporary club house, Jax leaning heavily against the back of his chair; his VP on one side, his wife on the other.

"_Stop_ looking at her like that."

Chibs coughed and crossed his arms, trying to remind himself that despite being the older, more experienced of the two, he was at Jax's mercy, and to be fair, he _had_ been fucking his wife.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your head right now."

"You're _not_ going to do that Jackson."

"Again, why am I listening to _you_?"

He had tried not to look at her, but like so many times in the past few months they'd been together, he couldn't _help_ but look at her; drawn to her like a magnet whenever she spoke.

"The club is fragile enough as it is, what do you think is going to happen if they find out about this?"

Jax's jaw clenched and he looked towards the table as if he were consulting the reaper at its center, silently asking for advice.

"It _wouldn't_ be murder."

An unbearable sadness washed over Tara's face, but she stood firm.

"I'm sorry, Jax," she continued, "I don't think you realize how _sorry_ I am. But you're no more capable of killing him than I am. There are smarter ways to deal with this."

Chibs felt the air rush out of his lungs as he glanced up towards the two of them, witnessing Jax realize what they had had in mind from the minute he had confessed; all of a sudden becoming all the more real. He shared a look with Tara and saw the regret that shone from her own eyes, the worry that he would resent her for what was about to happen.

_Never_, he thought silently, pleading for her understanding. He could see the agitation in her stance, the realization that she was only hours away from getting what she had always wanted: an escape; a way out for her and her boys. And he was going to give it to her; every bloody, traitorous inch of him.

—

_now._

The silence of the warehouse was deafening without the thunderous buzzing of the tattoo gun. He could feel ink and blood dripping down his skin, but he savored the sensation, the stinging wounds that had begun to burn more with every passing second. Jax's work was finished but he could feel him standing at his back, a hand left resting on his shoulder; a feeling that he was uncertain how to proceed. For who could have expected such a turn as this?

Chibs stood, wincing at the aching in his back and shoulders, but making Jax's decision for him, forcing him to remove his hand.

"You'll be okay Jackie-boy," he said, attempting to replicate their so very recent feelings of shared camaraderie. He pulled a black thermal on over his head and he could feel the fibers sticking to his freshly inked skin.

Jax had a look on his face as if he were about to yell, maybe cry or denounce him as his friend, brother, and confidante, but instead he only nodded. There were feelings of regret between them now; different than what he'd felt when he had left Fiona in Scotland, but still regret – sadness at how things had to end between himself and a man with whom he had forged a once unbreakable bond.

"Just take care of them," he said only mildly angry now, his posture rigid.

"I think we've seen tha' she can do just find on her own, yeah?"

There was a brief moment of silence for Chibs' passing, as if he had in fact died. He had felt the lid of his coffin close; but hadn't his mother always told him, "Death is just the beginning"? A tense recognition was shared between the two before he was the first to walk away, feeling like he had just dropped an inconceivably heavy weight behind his retreating footsteps, and when he went to glance back he saw it – the weight of his past was standing in Jax's shoes; a younger, fresher face, free of scars, a young man sacrificing one life for another.

_end._


End file.
